Inspector Holmes and Medical Examiner Watson
by pro-prodigy
Summary: AU in which Holmes is a gifted Scotland Yard inspector and Watson is the chief medical examiner, while Lestrade is the talented, but not quite Holmes worthy, private detective whom Holmes and Watson constantly steal cases from. H/W slash


Title: The Adventures of Inspector Holmes and Chief Medical Examiner, Dr. Watson  
Rating: PG  
Characters/Pairings: Holmes/Watson  
Word Count: 5,000+  
Disclaimer. Still. Not. Mine. Dammit.  
Warnings: Slash, very slash (sorry kids, but **random_nexus** said, "Go for it!")

Summary: For** random_nexus **whose request was this: _AU where Sherlock Holmes is the Inspector at Scotland Yard, with all his fine-honed detecting tools intact. Watson is the Med. Examiner for the Yard. (they should lodge together, too) Mr. G. Lestrade is a consulting detective in London, clever and all--not Holmes' calibre, of course--but constantly running across Holmes and/or Watson and having the case snatched out of his hands by Inspector Holmes or Dr. Watson.  
_  
A/N: This plot bunny ATE MY BRAIN. It's insane! Two chemistry classes daydreaming (because when your professor's name is Lovecraft, what else are you supposed to do?) and some ridiculous hours later and I was all, "Wholly crap this thing ain't a drabble!!" *stumbles off and collapses from literary brain failure due to a dangerous state of overuse* Please enjoy my penchant for AU madness and blatant gay love.

Originally posted for** Watson's_Woes** 250 Members! Celebration post. I just _had_ to join in. *rolls eyes at damn stupid self*

* * *

"Inspector Holmes, I would very much _appreciate_," Lestrade enunciated slowly, as if every syllable cost him dearly to say them, "if you would permit me to have access to the victim's remains."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Lestrade, but this is Scotland Yard's investigation, no place for an amateur detective," Inspector Holmes replied, his cheerful tone more mocking than the impertinent title, which he used often enough and hardly at all with any real malice. It was something of a joke between them really, except that at the moment, Lestrade was not very much in a humorous mindset.

"According the victim's sister, Miss Daisy Saunders, by whom I am thus employed, this is my investigation as well," Lestrade replied, testily.

"Oh?" the sinfully youthful—for Holmes had been promoted very early because of his tremendous promise though he hadn't gotten any further since—Inspector's eyebrows shot up, indicating intense, though taunting interest. "And have you yet to solve that most interesting cipher of which was sent to the victim shortly before she was murdered?"

"No," Lestrade ground out, this time his frustration focused inward. "Though perhaps I will have a chance if you would allow me to actually _see_ the body and let me work from there. I cannot make bricks without clay, you know."

"You have plenty of that, Mr. Lestrade, I assure you, and although I absolutely loathe to see you go, I must insist that you leave this to us professionals."

Lestrade's angry retort was interrupted by the laboratory door opening suddenly from which an uncommonly tanned—or at least, unusually for someone who spent most of their time down in a morgue—gentleman emerged wearing an apron bespattered with gore and lord knows what else.

"Is there a problem?" he asked, his attention directed at the Inspector before catching sight of Lestrade. "Ah, I should have known. Hallo Lestrade, it's good to see you again," he greeted, a very genuine smile, though it was difficult to say whether any of the man's smiles were truly dishonest, adorning his face.

He reached out to grasp the other man's hand, which Lestrade returned only somewhat hesitantly, adamantly refusing to contemplate that despite the strong smell of disinfectant he could easily detect, those selfsame hands had most likely been last touching a mangled corpse. Ex-Afghan soldiers certainly had a stronger constitution than even Lestrade could claim.

Meanwhile the coroner turned back to address his colleague. "I meant to ask you, Holmes. Did you remember to file your official case report for that Whitechapel Abbey investigation from a couple months back? Chief Inspector Gregson has been asking for it every day for the last two weeks."

The Inspector groaned. "The paperwork is simply too arduous to contemplate. For such an elementary crime, the amount of notation involved is appalling. I can't even properly remember all the statements I took from those monks, not that they provided any pertinent information other than God works in such mysterious ways that the truth is often undermined by the dullness of his subjects. Gregson can growl all he wants, but you really can't expect me to subject myself to such horror, can you Watson?"

Dr. Watson's mustache twitched in a familiar fashion as he pat his friend's shoulder in an exaggeratedly reassuring manner before allowing it to settle there, which didn't seem to bother the Inspector in the slightest, despite the hand's previous proximity to steadily rotting flesh. "Don't worry, Holmes. I still have my notes from the case. I'll take care of it when I finish up with this."

Holmes' expression registered only as obvious relief, but Lestrade had seen it consistently under other circumstances and therefore knew it to be one of half-concealed affection. Lestrade, though not quite as astute as his Scotland Yard equivalent, did however deduce a manner in which to get back at the irritating Inspector.

"Dr. Watson," Lestrade called, causing the man to edge back out from the room he had meant to return to, "seeing as Inspector Holmes will not allow me to intrude on police property, I was wondering if perhaps you would do me the honor of accompanying me to a late lunch. At any rate, your observations are worth infinitely more than what I could glean from the remains myself. Simpsons at three?"

Watson nodded. "I will be happy to join you. I will have my assistant draw up a copy of my report for you as well. If you will excuse me gentlemen."

Watson disappeared once more into the basement laboratory, though whatever rebuke was on Inspector Holmes' lips immediately died a swift death when a terrible bellowing echoed down the stairway.

"Inspector Holmes, in my office, _now_! No excuses!"

Holmes didn't flinch, but his mouth pressed down in an unhappy frown. "I trust you can see yourself out, Mr. Lestrade? I have an execution to attend."

Lestrade tipped his hat and the two went their separate ways with Holmes ascending the stairs to make his way to Chief Inspector Gregson's office whereupon he sat with a distinct lack of interest, while his superior fumed in the chair in front of him.

"Inspector Holmes, I just received a dressing down from the Deputy Commissioner himself about how we conduct ourselves here at the Yard, when a Mr. Edward Hughes," the Chief Inspector's eyes bulged somewhat, "saw fit to rouse his formidable legal contacts on the compulsorily use of warrants."

"The magistrate would not grant one, what else could I do?"

"The magistrate couldn't legally give you a warrant without the proper proof."

"I had proof," Holmes snapped irately. "Ash that could only be produced from Carson's particular stationary paper when burned, the mud stain on his left coat tail—"

"Real proof, not just your guesses!" Gregson admonished.

"It wasn't a guess, otherwise Miss King would be as dead as Mrs. Carson."

"You cannot uphold the law while ignoring those that inconvenience you. Otherwise you undermine the whole system." Gregson rubbed the heel of his palm over his forehead in clear agitation. "I'm confining you to desk duty for the rest of this month."

Holmes practically leapt up from his seat. "Chief Inspector, if you would reconsider—"

"No, I can't, Inspector." Gregson's eyes met his with a certain hardness. "I would like to, but you have to leave the vigilante justice to Mr. Lestrade. We have rules at Scotland Yard and your immense talent for deductive reasoning doesn't exclude you from them. In fact, as you have already experienced, it is not likely you will be rewarded for it either. It took all my influence to keep you from being demoted back to sergeant. Do your desk duty, fix those suspect indexes you are always complaining about, and while you do this graciously and without complaint, make sure to hand in your official case report for the Whitechapel Abby thefts."

"I will have it for you by six o'clock, sir," Holmes growled brusquely before dismissing himself.

"Tell Dr. Watson to simply have it delivered to my desk," the Chief Inspector shot towards his retreating back.

Several hundred thousand excruciating hours later, Holmes found himself being roused from his impromptu slumber, caused by insurmountable boredom rather than exhaustion, atop a massive pile of loose papers and half open folders by none other than the doctor.

Hazel eyes that looked browner in the dim candlelight rather than their more characteristic shade of blue peered down at him with not so uncharacteristic amusement. "It's eight o'clock, Holmes. Time to depart."

Holmes left his head pillowed against his arms, peering up at his housemate with a gaze that was penetrating even through the haze of sleep. His eyes flicked briefly from his trouser knees, to his cuffs, before settling somewhere between his collar and jaw. "You walked through Battersea Park after your lunch with Lestrade—alone. You tarried along the footbridge on the west end. You encountered thirty-seven ducks during your jaunt, nineteen of them male, the rest female. You collected several leaves and pressed them into the journal you bought from that shop on Queenstown."

He quirked an eyebrow. "How am I to verify your estimation on the ducks when I myself did not mark their number?"

Holmes rose stiffly and collected his hat and a few papers he stuffed into his jacket pocket. "The price you pay for careless observation. It is not your fault, such is not your area of expertise."

"And ducks fall under yours?"

"Of course. I assume my report was satisfactory?"

"The Chief Inspector was much impressed."

"Doubtlessly because it was far more romantic than my usual ones tend to be."

"I believe it had more to do with the fact that it was actually finished."

They went on to discuss Lestrade's recent findings on the cipher murders while they rode a cab together to the moderately sized house they both inhabited on Kensington. It was a little more than one police Inspector could afford, but together with the Chief Medical Examiner of Scotland Yard, they managed perfectly fine. It was a little shabby, especially from the outside as neither men were home much to attend to it. Holmes had apparently inherited it from some relative or another, but the interior was neatly kept due the iron hand of their venerable housekeeper and her even stricter husband, the head butler, who had both come with the house and therefore their threats of keeping the mess restricted to Holmes' study was not an optional adherence. They kept a physician's lamp over the door, which Watson lit on the nights work at the Yard were light and kept one of the downstairs rooms for a modest, and mainly charitable, practice he ran on his days off.

Holmes was pacing his study when Watson entered once invited in, wearing his dressing gown, green, which shaded his eyes accordingly, over his nightshirt. "Are you not going to bed, Holmes?"

Holmes shook his head as he stalked over to the side table to fill his pipe. "I fear I already slept too much while at the Yard and shall endeavor instead to solve this cipher, which is far more worthy of my attention. _It is the key_, Watson."

"If I could do anything to help…"

"I will alert you if I discover something. Good night."

Holmes half listened to the limping gait of his housemate as he moved towards the other end of the house, his mind faintly inferring that the doctor had mostly likely been on his feet all day.

It was half past one when Holmes stumbled on an epiphany, the cipher's impenetrable code suddenly becoming clearer and the entire scheme falling into place.

"Watson!" he shouted leaning against the banister and across the gap where Watson's room lay.

The man emerged, some remnant of war lighting his eyes.

"Bring your revolver, I have found the connecting strand!"

"What is it?"

"Paper routes. Wiggins!" Holmes shouted down the stairs. "A cab and a telegram note please. Hurry Watson, get dressed. There isn't any time to spare."

Holmes pounded down the stairs, while Watson retreated back into his bedroom. Wiggins was waiting with a the desired notary and a pen with which Holmes scribbled a hurried note, finishing just as Watson also made his way down the stairs.

"Have your boy deliver this to 221 Baker Street, apartment B, but _only_," Holmes emphasized the word as he handed the telegram over to Jones, "only _after_ an hour and fifteen minutes after we have departed."

"Holmes, that just simply isn't fair," Watson said, chuckling softly despite the gravity of the situation.

Holmes grinned. "Hardly, we have to get a warrant, after all."

And so it was that Inspector Holmes with the help of Dr. Watson, the head coroner assigned to the case, successfully nabbed the cipher killer in the apartments above a newspaper printers with well known private detective, Mr. Lestrade arriving at the scene exactly ten minutes too late.

"I tracked the wrong newspaper," he said between labored breathing as he watched Gabriel Bellwicke being packed into the nearest Maria. Watson and Bellwicke's drugged and insensate victim, who was rather lucky not to have been found dead, were loaded into the second.

"Ah, the _Sun_ and the _Express _do share nearly identical routes that intersect to where the victim was found, but it's the _Express_ that uses a thinner ink due to the paper it's printed on also being of a thinner quality. The same paper company that provides for the _Express_ also has ties with African trade."

Lestrade closed his eyes in sudden understanding. "The papyrus mix in the cipher paper."

Holmes nodded. "Precisely."

"And the cipher itself?" Lestrade queried.

"Nothing, a distraction to divert our attentions. The code was unbreakable only because it hid absolutely nothing."

Lestrade sighed. "Congratulations, Holmes. That brings you to what? Eleven cases you've successfully snatched from under me?"

"Fifteen, actually."

"Our bet?"

"A dozen."

Lestrade waved his hand in the manner one flicks at a particularly eager mosquito. "You can drop by Baker Street tomorrow afternoon to retrieve your winnings and can enlighten me once more to my many failings on the solving of this case. Watson is welcome to join, of course."

The Inspector shook his head. "He has a shift at St. Bart's."

There was a thoughtful pause in Lestrade's otherwise bland response. Holmes was suspicious, but hardly wary of the less talented detective. He caught a ride with the remaining Maria back to the Yard soon after in order to wait to return home to Kensington with Watson.

* * *

"Congratulation on Scotland Yard's amazing success on the cipher murder case," Lestrade drawled, casually tossing his newspaper down beside the tea tray on the dining table and trading it for a teacup, mounted on an unpatterned saucer. "I noticed your name was not mentioned. Will you have any?" He indicated towards the tray.

The off duty Inspector waved away the invitation. "Watson and I prefer to take coffee around this time. As for being accredited for services rendered, I have been officially placed on probation since I was technically confined to deskwork as of yesterday."

Lestrade snorted into his teacup as he sat at his armchair by the unlit fireplace. "Hence why I work as a _private_ consulting detective."

"There isn't a moment I do not envy your solidarity, Lestrade," he replied with a bitterness too old to have been about his probation.

Lestrade watched the other man in careful consideration, though he chose not to immediately voice whatever occupied his mind and instead said, "I never did get a chance to thank you during that investigation with the British-French naval treaty business, especially with Inspector Forbes being so unwieldy."

"Mr. Phelps was an old schoolmate of Watson's and Forbes is an incurable idiot. Besides, though I do enjoy our competitions, Mr. Lestrade, the safety of this country and its citizens takes precedent over who earns the credit for it."

For some unfathomable reason, Lestrade smiled briefly before adopting a serious expression once more. "Ah, I see. Well, Inspector Holmes, I would still like to say that your assistance is appreciated, certainly more so than when you shamelessly close my investigation before I get a chance to, and I would like to dispense to you some very salient advice. Before I do, I assure you that we, neither of us, shall speak of what took place ever again, meaning we can be entirely candid with our speech."

"Indeed?" Holmes inquired with some humour.

"Yes, quite so." Again, Lestrade smiled in that curious way again, its presence only a mystery because until this moment the Inspector had yet to be ignorant to something the amateur detective before him was privy to. However, Lestrade's expression turned somber in an instant as he laid his saucer down before him on the leather ottoman and leaned back once more into his armchair. "Holmes—Sherlock, you will never be with John in the way you desire while the two of you continue to serve within Scotland Yard."

Holmes grimaced before he could ever hope to hide it and swiftly turned his face toward the sitting room window, his profile instantly hidden from scrutiny. When he opened his mouth, he was quickly intercepted by Lestrade.

"Don't deny it, old boy. It will be a waste of this, soon to be, nonexistent conversation."

"How?" Holmes questioned faintly.

"I wouldn't know mud from wet sand, but what I do have is gut instincts and when I followed them, I discovered that you had been disowned from your father at nineteen. Why? You received near perfect marks at university, had a record of a brilliant sportsmen and academ rather than delinquent. No outrageous gambling debts, no problems with illegitimate children born outside wedlock. Why else would he disown you than if he discovered you an invert? I thought it was strange that you would own a house even though you could barely afford that decrepit dump of a room on Montague Street just a few years ago. Your brother Mycroft bought it for you, didn't he? He may not have been able to get you a share of the inheritance since Sherrinford would have received or controlled the majority of it, but he could at least purchase you better lodgings with the amount he himself received. As for _who_ your inverted tendencies revolve around, it really isn't very hard to guess."

"We board together. We have separate rooms on separate sides of the house. We have a professional relationship in Scotland Yard as respected colleagues and consult with each other about the various investigations we conduct together. We have done nothing inappropriate," Holmes snapped, his righteous anger as readily apparent as his defensiveness.

"No, I bet you have never even permitted yourself a lingering glance. A necessary precaution when constantly surrounded by fellow policemen," Lestrade said calmly though firmly, as if soothing a wounded animal. "But why do you not take tea in the afternoon? Is it because you don't prefer Mrs. Hudson's particular brew? And why did you assist me in the naval treaty business? It certainly had many points of interest. Or was it because of Watson?"

Holmes face didn't change, but his demeanor subtly transformed so that the difference was nearly palpable. "You have yet to dispense to me any salient advice."

"Quit Scotland Yard, try and make it on your own. My own success is evidence enough that such a thing can be done."

"My brother needs a contact within Scotland Yard and I owe him."

"You are not without friends in the Yard. Gregson has an incomprehensible fondness for you and your protégée, Sergeant Hopkins. Your contacts could equally be your brother's. As for the house and job, I have a business proposition for you."

"I'm listening."

"Simply this, join me in my business, both of you. A qualified doctor on retainer would be a rather useful thing to have, I must say and there is no one so useful as an enemy turned friend."

Holmes ignored the jibe, choosing only to address the more significant points. "I had not realized your fees were so generous as to be split between three and the biggest question of all, _why_, after creating a unique profession all your own, would you be willing to share it?" Holmes asked.

Lestrade spread his arms in a wide, sweeping gesture. "Congratulate me, Inspector, I am set to be married and as such, I do not think my wife will appreciate me going hither and thither risking my life at every turn and recently I have been thinking of expanding my one man business as private consulting detective into a full scale agency. As for money, well, thankfully Miss. Morstan and I fell in love _before_ she inherited the Agra treasure. I think three of her pearls alone should cover the expense of your house in Kensington. As for you and Dr. Watson, the two of you can move here, at Baker Street. It is quite a bit smaller than you are used to, but together with your budding income, it will be much easier to afford and I daresay you and he could benefit greatly from closer accommodations."

"Your offer is very generous and you are certainly more brilliant than I ever gave you credit for," Holmes said, a little ruefully, "but it seems as if this all rather hinges on Watson."

Lestrade shrugged. "Didn't it always?"

"Yes." Holmes swallowed and stared down at the hands Watson had once professed had fascinated him from the start of their acquaintance.

The Inspector chose to remain silent, the same look on his face that Lestrade has seen on countless occasions when he himself arrives at a Scotland Yard crime scene. In fact, by now Lestrade has begun to instantly equate that expression with the imminent loss of a client's payment. It's a look of grand machination, of Holmes' unique ability to take the most obscure and faintest details and with them, create from the infinite possibilities of occurrences into one near perfect solution.

On this occasion it made Lestrade laugh a little.

This time at least, was no great mystery nor did it require genius.

"Chocolates and flowers, Holmes."

Holmes reluctantly broke out of his reverie to address him. "I beg your pardon?"

"Start with chocolates and flowers or whatever may be the homosexual male equivalent and then you can move on to more important matters from there," Lestrade elaborated.

"Chocolates…and flowers," Holmes repeated slowly.

Lestrade chuckled, half in exasperation. "Yes, Holmes. Surprisingly enough, such tokens do work. Otherwise, I think the human race would have died out eons ago."

Holmes' face took on a strained expression. "Could you perhaps explain to me the material significance in the exchange of those particular items?"

Lestrade exasperation morphed very quickly into irritation. "Holmes, it really is not that difficult. These things take less brains than just a little amount of heart."

"If you would only—"

"Here," Lestrade interrupted, drawing a ten pound note from his pocket, "this is the money I owe you, use this, present them to Watson and just see what happens."

The Inspector took the money with a dubious look and finally stood to shake hands with Lestrade and turned to leave. He turned back just as he stepped into the landing. "Congratulations on your impending marriage," he added absently, too preoccupied to give the sentiment any real feeling, before promptly leaving.

"And to yours," Lestrade murmured to the empty room.

* * *

It was around six o'clock in the evening before Holmes returned to his house in Kensington. Watson was nearly finished with his dinner, which suited Holmes fine, stolidly rebuffing Watson's invitations to join him. He was in no mood to eat much of anything.

Watson rose from the table in obvious pique, doctor instincts having been roused from Holmes' continual denial of sustenance. Holmes however, with all the determination of a coal driven engine, merely took the opportunity to grab the fellow by the wrist and drag him from the dining room and into the drawing room.

"Holmes, is something the matter?" Watson asked, allowing himself to be pulled along without complaint.

That was one of the things about Watson that had drawn Holmes to him from the very beginning. Watson would never ask 'where', but he would never fail to question 'why'. It simultaneously displayed Watson's profound retention for trust as well as his intelligence and Holmes loved him for it.

"Holmes," Watson began again, inherently knowing that at any other time, by simply uttering his name, Holmes would invariably answer, "can't this wait until _after_ you have sat down for some dinner? Is it a case?"

No, Holmes thought, no it couldn't wait because if he stopped now, he may never again have the courage to finish it. But he couldn't say that. If he did, he would lose what little momentum he gained, so instead he merely answered, "No, it is not a case."

"Then why have you not left your hat and coat in the foyer? Or is this another dastardly plot to upset our butler? If so, I warn you now, I refuse to be an accomplice in such schemes," Watson declared, his humour pleasantly twitching the very ends of his mustache.

"I have something for you," Holmes said suddenly, as if he hadn't heard anything of what Watson had said, and thrusting the first item into Watson's bewildered grasp.

Watson looked down with some surprise—for he had learned very quickly that when living with Sherlock Holmes there were many surprises to be had and had learned to temper his initial reaction over such phenomena—at the fairly thin but substantial red leather bound he held in his hands. His face diffused with immediate delight as the spindly letters upon the cover reached his comprehension.

"Robert Louis Stevenson's newly collected works," Holmes clarified unnecessarily.

"_The New Arabian Nights_," Watson read excitedly. "Upon my word, Holmes, this has only very recently been released. I have not even mentioned it, but yes, I in fact own nearly all of Stevenson's serials he had posted in the _London Magazine_, including most of the ones I had missed during my time in Afghanistan. They have been some of my favorites."

"Detective stories," Holmes simply couldn't help but sniff at that, "as if you do not get enough of that in real life. Honestly, the only reason they are mysteries at all is because the author deigned to withhold a plethora of facts from the reader. A travesty to our profession."

"Yes well as a writer I do think he spends a little more time writing stories than he does writing official crime reports," Watson said warmly, obviously unaffected by Holmes' cynicism.

"Then he should leave the art of mystery to other men," Holmes said definitively. He fumbled with a second package. "I've something else for you."

This time Watson received it eagerly, holding the round metal tin in his hands with not a little consternation.

"It is arnica salve," Holmes hastened to explain. "It is used as a common herbal remedy—"

"For muscle pain and inflammation. Yes, I'm aware. My shoulder should benefit greatly from it," Watson says, nodding thoughtfully.

"It is made from a flower with leathery, basal leaves commonly arranged in a rosette on at the apex of the stem, typically unbranched and deep-rooted. The petals—"

"Yes, they look like yellow daisies," Watson laughs.

Holmes, very rapidly losing speed, fidgets slightly under Watson's torturously openly affectionate gaze.

"Thank you very much, Holmes. These were exceedingly thoughtful. I couldn't be happier." And he meant that with all his being. "May I inquire after the occasion?"

"Chocolates and flowers," Holmes uttered unexpectedly.

Watson brows move to form a quizzical frown. "I beg your pardon?"

"You will have to ask Mr. Lestrade for the exact details, since I comprehend very little about the overall concept," Holmes babbles on. "Do you…" Holmes pauses in uncharacteristic hesitation, "do you like them?"

Watson's beaming smile returns in full force. "Very much so. Thank you again."

"It was a pleasure." And he did indeed mean it. "Watson, I am about to do something that will change our lives for good."

In two quick strides he was standing directly in front of Watson, closer than should have been personally comfortable except that it was not, and immediately grasped both of Watson's hands and pulling them closer to his chest, his thumbs hooking around the pulse points in the other man's wrists and his fingers covering Watson's own, one of the hands still holding the tin of arnica salve.

Watson's glowing countenance dimmed by several increments, more of a reaction to Holmes' serious tone rather than his proximity.

"This could possibly change nearly all aspects of our lives from where we live to what we do from day to day," Holmes continued, his voice unaccountably hoarse.

"What are you going to do?" Watson breathed, inwardly marveling at the little space between them as he stared slightly upwards into the face of his friend.

"I am going to quit Scotland Yard and leave my position as inspector."

Watson was in obvious shock, but Holmes did not feel like he had the time to spend on lessening it, despite the repercussions.

"And_ this_," Holmes steps forward even closer so that between them there is no such thing as personal space, "this will change something else entirely."

He leaned forward to press his lips against that of his dearest and most cherished friend, a single, lonely tear even now making its way down his pallid cheek, already anticipating the pain he thought would inevitably follow even though for those few spare seconds, he was blissfully and unequivocally happy.

He had to end it though because their arms were being awkwardly squashed between them and somewhere in those terrifyingly wonderful moments, Watson had dropped the metal tin which fell and rolled somewhere between them. The kiss was ending too because Watson was forcibly pushing him away, their parting made painfully abrupt.

Holmes stumbled back into a well placed chair as he watched Watson briskly turn to exit the room. He knew what he would do then, he thought as he watched Watson striding towards the door, he would take up the bottle of cocaine he had secreted in the corner of his wardrobe and he would indulge until he could forget everything that took place tonight and of John Watson entirely. Since that was altogether impossible, he doubted his misery was destined to last very long.

However to his surprise, when Watson finally reached the door, he made no move to open it, only jiggling the handle slightly before returning to him. He dared not to hope, but his heart seemed to stop anyways.

"Bloody fool," Watson hissed, eyes darting nervously towards the doorway, "how could you do that knowing the door was unlocked

It must have been a rhetorical question because Watson was soon kissing him with passionate fervor and Holmes knew no more of pain.

All too soon, they had their things packed for 221B Baker Street. Holmes had turned in his uniform for good ( to Watson's unending grief because there is something to be said about men in uniforms, hence his own time spent in one during his Army days) and Watson was once again anticipating a more steady practice with the living as they handled the turning over of Lestrade's private consulting agency and both of them couldn't help but feel that all was as it should be and all was right in the universe.

* * *

(1) _New Arabian Nights_ was published in 1882, which falls on my imaginary timeline where Holmes and Watson have been living in Kensington and working together at Scotland Yard for about two years. Doesn't make sense? Yeah well, it's AU, so there.


End file.
